Yes, there's sand (lots of it). But this tranquil country on the tip of the Arabian Peninsula is nothing like what you'd expect

In Oman, people like to tell you how wrong you are about the weather. They do so with a sort of grim triumph, as if reminding you that your bouncy optimism doesn’t work here. “It’s a beautiful day!” you might chirp to Rashid, the man who’ll drive you in a Land Cruiser deep into the Wahiba Sands, the nearly 5,000-square-mile desert that abuts Yemen and where you’ll be camping in a goat-hair tent for the night. There will be silence. Then, “very windy,” Rashid might reply ominously, looking up at the sky, which is a bright, cartoonish blue against which a few cumulus clouds are pinned, fat and immobile. What a downer, you’ll think, settling back in your seat. Rashid doesn’t know what he’s talking about.

Two hours later, you’ll be in the goat-hair tent. The wind will be blowing so fiercely, so unrelentingly, that within ten minutes, everything will look as if it’s been coated with a layer of ash. Everything—your fresh-pressed pomegranate juice, your hair, your eyes—will be filmed with white, finer-than-sugar sand. “Very windy!” Rashid will shout over the gales, and you will nod, glumly.

The weather was the first way I was wrong about Oman. The landscape was the second. I thought: Middle East. Therefore: Desert. Hot. Dry. And although Oman is in fact partly desert (and hot, in parts), it is also mountainous and coastal, and even pastoral. It is also climatically fickle: Temperatures drop and soar in the space of a day. Sandstorms appear seemingly out of nowhere and then vanish as abruptly as they began. In the capital Muscat, it will rain, hard, for an hour and then suddenly turn sunny and clear. The weather reminded me of spending time with a toddler: There were disagreeable periods but then they ended and it was difficult to feel resentful.

The ship-building city of Sur, on the Gulf of Oman. Photo: CHARTON Franck / hemis.fr | GettyImages

When you tell people you’re going to Oman, they have one of two reactions. One is confusion: “Where?” The other is disbelief: “Why?” And indeed, Oman, which is nestled between Yemen to its south and Saudi Arabia and the United Arab Emirates to its west (with Iran just across the sea to its north), isn’t exactly an obvious destination for us. Yet despite its neighbours, the country—which is roughly the size of Italy, with a population of just under five million—is a revelation: a safe, secure patch of the Middle East that’s not only an antidote to the glittery artifice of Dubai (the only place in the region that we visit in significant numbers) but also a series of astonishing topographies, each more impressive than the last. It is also very confident about its potential; the country hopes to become a tourist destination not just for the Gulf States residents and Europeans who already visit in decent numbers but for Americans as well, for whom the idea of spending their two weeks’ vacation in an area they know only for strife and terror is a difficult sell.

And yet the country is not just a literal oasis but also a geopolitical one: It is Oman that served as the mediator between Iran and the United States in the most recent round of nuclear talks, and Oman that secured the release of the three American hikers who were detained in Iran in 2009. A country’s relative friendliness toward the United States doesn’t necessarily make it any more inherently desirable as a holiday destination—but it is worth remembering that when we start dismissing places solely based on their neighbours, we often miss seeing something wonderful in exchange.

Everyone begins their trip to Oman in Muscat, a low-slung, modest, dun-coloured town that feels more like an exurb than the country’s capital. Muscat is worth visiting mostly for its main attraction, the Sultan Qaboos Grand Mosque, which occupies more than 4,447,000 square feet and is home to the world’s second-largest carpet (45,208 square feet) and second-largest chandelier (46 feet high). Despite these extravagances, and the acres of glittery white marble, the mosque is less ostentatious than it might be; there are beautiful carved wooden panels and elaborate stained glass windows everywhere you look, but it really is an actual place of worship, not a fantasy of one. And yet the mood is festive, even joyful: Aside from the groups of Western tourists, the rest of the visitors are from across the Gulf: Indians and Saudis and Qataris and Pakistanis, the men in thobes, the women in hijab, the children running around and shrieking, everyone wielding a selfie stick. The Omani guards look on, indulgent. Here, as in the rest of the country, the atmosphere is more relaxed than you might expect, the people apparently unruffled.

The mosque, which was completed in 2001, is named for Oman’s 75-year-old Sultanate, Qaboos bin Said al Said, who overthrew his father in 1970 and has been ruling ever since. It’s he who is considered largely responsible for ushering the state into its modern condition (improving infrastructure, creating jobs) and judiciously engaging in global affairs (Qaboos has managed to be on good terms with both the United States and Iran) and also for the country’s current pursuit of tourism. Unlike many of its neighbours’, Oman’s oil reserves aren’t infinite, which makes attracting visitors not just an interesting experiment but a necessity.

Qaboos is beloved here. “The Sultan, bless him,” said my driver, an otherwise taciturn man, as we began the two-hour drive out of Muscat and up to my next destination, Jabal Akhdar, some of the country’s highest and most beautiful mountains. “He is a great man.” Part of this was tradition, not to mention the law: It is illegal to criticise the Sultan. But it also reminded me of the sort of hero worship that, say, the Singaporeans have for their former prime minister, Lee Kuan Yew. Like Qaboos, Lee, who died last year, built his city-state—a place with few resources and not much land—from a forgotten backwater into a rich and self-sustaining society. Unlike Lee, however, who was succeeded by one of his sons, Qaboos has no clear successor, which makes people nervous: who will carry on the Sultan’s work?

The area is known for its production of roses, from which the country’s rosewater—used for cooking, healing and religious ceremonies—is made

The area is known for its production of roses, from which the country’s rosewater—used for cooking, healing and religious ceremonies—is made

One hopes that whoever does so will be as vigilant about protecting the land as this ruler has been. Jabal Akhdar is part of the 186-mile-long Al Hajar Range that creeps along the country’s northern border and is scarred by dramatically deep gullies; from my hotel, the Alila Jabal Akhdar—one of three luxury properties currently open or being developed in the area—it looks as if the Grand Canyon and the Rockies have been Photoshopped into one extravagant image.

The mountains have long been a respite for Omanis; in the summer, when the lowlands become unbearable, the air is brisk and fresh, the nights inky black, the stars winkingly bright, the land coloured a dusty green with olive trees. (In the spring, when I was there, the hotel is populated by westerners, largely British expats based in the region, vacationing over break.)

But mostly, the area is known for its production of roses, from which the country’s rosewater—used for cooking, healing, and religious ceremonies—is made. I am a month too early to witness the rose harvest, which usually begins in April but the next day a guide and I drive high into the mountains before beginning a walk through some of the terraced steps that turn the hillside into a series of tidy, cascading pleats.

‘It looks as if the Grand Canyon and the Rockies have been Photoshopped into one extravagant image.’ Photo: mkakade711@gmail.com / GettyImages

The rose bushes are still fallow but the apricot trees are beginning to bud and sun-drunk bees wobble dozily around their bunches of white blossoms. After an hour of walking, my guide hikes back up the skinny, treacherous path cut out of the mountainside to retrieve the car and I continue on a thin dirt channel that wends through a series of farms—too few and too small to really make a proper village—which will lead me to the road, where we’ll meet. The mountain is steep enough that I have to concentrate on where I step; the earth is dry and crumbly beneath me, and with every footfall, I feel myself skidding a few inches downhill. After a while, I stop. Above me, the sky is a clear, bright blue, broken only by a few tendrils of white smoke threading up from unseen chimneys. Around me are spindly, spiky pomegranate trees, the last of their fruit mummifying on their branches, and almond trees blowsy with pale-pink flowers. It is completely silent. I wait in the hot air and experience one of those moments you find less frequently these days and which are therefore more precious: in which you no longer know where you are, or even when you are; when the world of skyscrapers and warfare seems an abstraction, a dream and what’s before you—the good, clean smell of bark and hot soil—is the only thing that’s real.

It would be naive and too pat to say that in those minutes the world of contemporary geopolitics, not to mention Oman’s own localised difficulties—an uncertain future, grumblings about too much bureaucracy, an ever-growing gulf between the moneyed and the poor—seemed more theoretical than not, things easy to forget and incidental to such beauty. But it would also be true. There, among the orchards of flowering trees, it felt not only possible that this should be a place worth visiting but necessary—a dream of peace in a region never celebrated for it.

As surprising as the Omani mountains are, however, I am really here to see what I thought I’d see: the desert. And so the next day I am picked up by the aforementioned Rashid and driven another two hours south, deep into the Wahiba Sands, the vast dunes in the country’s northeast, for a night in a tent arranged by Hud Hud, a luxury mobile camp operator that arranges private stays in different locations across the country.

I can tell you that for most of us, this area is what we think of when we think of Oman, and yet doing so minimises how majestic, how otherworldly, the experience of seeing it is for the first time. The startling thing is how abruptly the landscape announces itself. One minute you’re driving through scrubland and then, suddenly, the dusty dirt road transforms itself into something else altogether. Gone, at once, are the tidy Bedouin encampments that punctuate the desert’s borders, their striped blanket walls flapping crisply in the wind; here, instead, are swooping parabolas of apricot-coloured sand, audaciously feminine in their curves. Adding to the sense of dislocation are the camels you sometimes pass—lumbering, or folded into catlike crouches, staring at nothing—and the complete silence. The silence, in fact, is the most overwhelming, and occasionally unsettling aspect of the desert: at night, when the wind has quieted itself, it seems to scream, an absence of sound made into a presence.

But here, too, it is possible to be wrong about Oman. Just as you are wrong when you think of Oman as monolithic in politics or climate, you are equally wrong when you confuse the desert’s sinuousness, its lack of anything sharp or hard-edged, for placidity. Because of all the landscapes you’ll find here, it is this one that is the least friendly, the most ferocious: although the sand has been wafting, gently, romantically, soon after we enter it quickly becomes the equivalent of a blizzard, so choking that I can do nothing but sit in my tent, a scarf wrapped around my entire head, including my eyes, trying to read with a flashlight, my book fattening itself with sand. It is the most extreme weather I have ever experienced—unlike snow, it is inescapable; unlike rain, it is uncontainable—and it gave me new respect for the people who live in this land, where you are always reminded not only of the caprice of nature but of your own powerlessness against it. Living in a place like this inspires not only humility but also a sense of resignation. “When is it going to be over?” I shout over the wind to Rashid, who shrugs. “At nightfall,” he guesses. “Inshallah.”

Photo: Jasper James

And then, just when I begin resigning myself to the fact that the sandstorm will never end, it does. The staff bustle into action, beating the sand from my bed, refastening the long metal pins that hold my tent walls to one another, lighting the scores of votives that crowd the low table in the living room tent, filling my tin can shower with hot water and presenting me with dish after dish of simple but delicious regional meze: stewed eggplant and chunky, grainy hummus and miniature falafel the size of grapes. Later, when I go to bed in my now miraculously sandless bed, my tent hung with glowing solar lamps, the air outside cool and clear and so still that I can see, very far in the distance, smudges of camels making their way back to their feeding posts for the night, I wonder if I dreamed the entire episode—if, in the end, it was all a mirage, a hallucination of the desert rather than the real thing.

But that’s the thing about Oman—you may never know. Two days later, I am at my final destination, the Six Senses Zighy Bay resort. If you imagine Oman as a gourd with a little cap atop it, I am in the cap, near the northern tip of the Musandam Peninsula. Like every other landscape here, this one is dramatic: a series of folding cliffs that drop down to a white-sand beach and water that’s the kind of blue you find only in children’s drawings of the ocean. In the mornings, I eat eggs scrambled with onions and cilantro; in the afternoon, I eat fresh dates; and in the evening, I have whatever the local catch is, grilled and served with cucumbers. In between, I swim in the ocean, in those impossible waters (which I have all to myself—the other guests, mostly British couples and families from across the Gulf States, stick to their private plunge pools) and as I float on my back, I think again what I thought in the desert: Mirage or not? Hallucination or real?

It’s real, of course. Which is part of what makes it all so thrilling. On my last night at the resort, I am taken out in a renovated dhow, an old sailing vessel that is rented out for sundown cruises. There are little cheese puffs, and—because we are in the Persian Gulf, beyond the reach of a liquor license—sparkling date juice instead of champagne, and as we purr through the dark-blue waters, we pass a dozen fishing boats heading home for the day, their occupants waving and smiling at us as we pass.

Then, one of the stewards calls to me and points at something in the distance. “Iran,” he announces, so I look. And there it is: a sand-coloured haze on the horizon, close enough so that I think I can see the blurry outlines of buildings. It is a place I’ve always wanted to go, and for much of my life, it was only a desire, never a possibility. But here I am, almost there already, squinting at its shore from a place I also never thought I would see. And really, isn’t that what travel is? A chance to reckon with what you want to see versus what you really do see, a chance to rethink what you thought you knew—as long as you give the place, wherever it is, the opportunity to work its spell on you. Oman gave me both. It wasn’t what I expected. But I kept my eyes open, even in the sandstorm and in the end, I saw.

Oman: a quick guide

What to Pack Dress for the heat, of course, but be modest about it: Omanis are fairly tolerant of foreigners and our sartorial permissiveness, but both women and men are required to have their arms, shoulders, and legs covered if they want to enter the Sultan Qaboos Grand Mosque. (Women don’t need to have their heads covered in general, though, and not all Omani women do, either.) And bring a lightweight shawl for protection from the sun as well as the occasional sandstorm.

To Drink or Not Alcohol is forbidden to Omanis; it is, however, available to foreigners at most high-end hotels—check before you book. Same thing for mobile camps: Hud Hud doesn’t have its own liquor license, for example, but you can buy wine or spirits at duty-free and bring them along.

Where to Stay After you’ve seen Muscat’s Sultan Qaboos Grand Mosque and the pretty, if sanitised, Old Quarter—the buildings scrubbed up like stage sets; the medina selling tourist tat—there’s no need to linger. While there, though, base yourself at the Chedi Muscat, which has three lap pools and an extravagant breakfast buffet. There’s something of a building boom in the Jabal Akhdar Mountains—an Anantara is slated to open this fall—but for sheer views, there’s little more spectacular than the intimate Alila, right on the lip of a gorge. The hotel offers well-considered hikes and day-trips, and the spa is superlative.

It’s also a nice idyll before a night or two of glamping in the desert with Hud Hud. Each camp consists of a large tented living room, individual tents with queen-size beds, and a bathroom with a tin can hot-water shower and drop toilet (there’s no electricity, plumbing, or Wi-Fi). It’ll be just you and your party—the staff stay discreetly out of sight.

Finally, there’s nowhere better to wash the desert sand out of your hair than at the Six Senses Zighy Bay (from Wahiba Sands, you’ll have to fly to Dubai, then take a two-hour private car ride to the resort). All of the villas come with plunge pools, but if you can, get one on the beach—it’s likely you’ll have the sand all to yourself. The resort, which sits at the foot of a dramatic stretch between the Hajar Mountains and the bay, also offers guests the option of paragliding down to its grounds.

Also: 11 desert stays that are taking the world by storm:

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Hotel Aire de Bardenas, Navarre, Spain

Located near Bardenas Reales, a semi-desert natural park, Hotel Aire de Bardenas is as no fuss as no fuss gets. From a distance, it’s just shiny metal boxes placed on stones. Inside the cubes, the bare look translates to white walls, home-style furniture, and an extended window looking out to an endless stretch of ochre. The hotel provides welcome packs to help you personalise your stay — these may include rose petals, oysters and massage oils. Most rooms come with their own outdoor bath, perfect for an evening dip under the sky. (Doubles from €203.50 or Rs17,700)

Amangiri, Utah, USA

If your idea of luxury is to escape to the middle of nowhere, Amangiri is the place for you. Spread across 600 acres in a remote protected valley, the resort has spacious suites, each of which come with an outdoor lounge, a fireplace and unobstructed views of the desert. Explore the rocky canyons with the many activities on offer, including horseback trails, kayaking on Lake Powell and early-morning hot-air-balloon rides. Or slow down at the spa, which has a stone-lined step pool with temperature-controlled water, and at the yoga pavilion, which opens to the landscape. Try the full-moon yoga, held outdoors. (Doubles from US$2,255 or Rs1,51,400)

Mihir Garh, Jodhpur, India

Created by Sidharth and Rashmi Rohet in 2009, this boutique hotel has nine private suites in the middle of the Thar Desert. The vibe at Mihir Garh is modern yet rooted in tradition: the miminal interiors are offset by pop-coloured upholstery manufactured in Jodhpur; en-suite fireplaces have been handcrafted by women from nearby villages; and systems such as rainwater harvesting and solar water heating are in place. Start your day with breakfast in the wilderness, go riding on fine Marwari horses, and learn to cook authentic Rajasthani dishes (with recipes from Sidharth’s late mother’s books). Though you’ll start feeling like royalty the minute you lay eyes on the stretching sand from the fortress—quiet, unflinching and all yours. (Doubles from Rs23,500)

Qasr Al Sarab Desert Resort by Anantara, Abu Dhabi, UAE

Standing in the Rub' al-Khali, part of the Arabian Desert and considered the world’s largest area of continuous sand (about 6.5 lakh sqkm), this desert resort is perfect for a family vacation. A city in itself, Qasr Al Sarab, 2½hrs from Abu Dhabi, has 205 rooms, villas and suites. The two- and three-bedroom villas have their own private plunge pool, an al fresco dining area and butler service. Dining options include a steakhouse and rooftop lounge named Suhail. #Bucketlist experiences such as camel treks, dune bashing and falcon shows are offered as well. While the children hang out at the kids’ and teens’ clubs, sneak in an indulgence or two at the Anantara Spa, where you can let their signature Arabian or Thai treatment, along with views of the vast desert, work wonders on your body and mind. (Doubles from AED1,300 or Rs23,765)

andBeyond Sossusvlei Desert Lodge, Namibia

Set in the northern part of the NamibRand Nature Reserve, near the Namib Desert, the andBeyond Sossusvlei Desert Lodge has 10 luxurious stone and glass villas overlooking craggy mountains and outcrops. Dinners are served on the open verandah or in the dunes, the pool is fed by an underground spring, and at a time, there are no more than 20 guests around. Sign up for a guided Namibian safari—look out for mountain zebras, ostriches and leopards—hot-air ballooning, and quad-bike trails. Don’t forget to visit the on-site observatory with a resident astronomer, where you can play ‘join the dots’ with the stars. (NAD8,855 or Rs40,830 per person per night)

Longitude 131°, Yulara, Australia

This luxury resort facing Uluru (Ayers Rock) has just 15 tents, including the intimate Luxury Tents, which boast contemporary custom-made furniture by Australian designers. All tents at Longitude 131° have organic linen, floor-to-ceiling windows and a balcony with views of the red-sand dunes. The restaurant Dune House has panoramic views and an open bar stocked with wines and spirits from around Australia. Watch the light hit the many sides of Uluru, or dine outdoors. You could even walk to Uluru’s base and get to know the Mala people, view cave paintings and watch the sun set at Kantju Gorge. Unwind at the Red Ochre Spa in a nearby hotel with a signature massage, body wrap or facial treatment. (AU$1,350 or Rs68,630 per person per night on twin-sharing basis, inclusive of all meals, select beverages and return airport transfers. Min 2N stay required)

Three Camel Lodge, Dalanzadgad, Mongolia

In the remote Gobi Desert, bordering northern China, this luxury eco-lodge was built and is staffed largely by locals, many of whom were raised in the desert. The 40 traditional felt tents (called gers—pronounced as ‘gaires’) face the rugged desert and the Gobi–Altai Mountains, which are home to Gobi bears, wild camels and snow leopards. Each ger at the Three Camel Lodge is heated by a wood stove and has custom furnishings and a central opening on the top that allows for stargazing from your bed. The Bulagtai Restaurant, which specialises in both Mongolian and Continental cuisines, gets fruits and vegetables from nearby organic farms. A massage ger offers Mongolian-inspired therapies. There are no telephones or Internet access here, so it’s just the place if you want to go off the radar. (Doubles from US$320 or Rs21,485)

The Serai, Jaisalmer, India

Set on a 100-acre private estate in the Thar Desert, The Serai is inspired by the royal caravan sites of the Rajputs. Out of the 21 stylish tents, six come with a heated dip pool and a private garden; the bright upholstery of each tent contrasts with the creamy white inside. Pamper yourselves at The Royal Tented Suite, which has its own spa, a heated outdoor pool and separate tents for dining and lounging. Else, The SUJÁN Spa offers massages, scrubs and reflexology treatments using organic products made with ingredients from the Thar. The Serai also has an in-house dairy farm and an organic herb and vegetable garden, where you can get yourself acquainted with dairy production and traditional cooking methods respectively. (Doubles from Rs19,500)

Wadi Rum Night Luxury Camp, Jordan

Imagine sleeping under the stars and waking up to the warm desert sun on your face. At this property in the Wadi Rum desert, you can do just that, thanks to transparent bubble rooms (pictured) that let you stargaze right from your bed. The Wadi Rum Night Luxury Camp has 25 Bedouin-style tents with handmade furniture and a private terrace with views of the Wadi Rum Mountains and dunes. When you’re not on a camel safari or riding across the desert in a 4x4, savour traditional Jordanian fare made by the camp’s private chef. (Doubles from JOD80 or Rs7,590)

Al Maha Resort, Dubai, UAE

Feel like a sheikh on safari at Al Maha, which is set within the Dubai Desert Conservation Reserve (part of the Arabian Desert). Spot Arabian oryx and gazelles right from the temperature-controlled infinity pool. Each suite boasts a private pool and deck, and the Timeless Spa specialises in treatments designed along Middle Eastern and Southeast Asian traditions. While the stylish fine-dining restaurant and terrace bar look out to the reserve, book a dinner under the night sky, with flame torches and Persian carpets, for a meal like no other. Do note that children under 10 aren’t allowed at the resort. (Doubles from AED 4,800 or Rs87,750, inclusive of all meals and two desert activities per day)

Photo: Khaled Nagy

Adrère Amellal, Cairo, Egypt

At Adrère Amellal, in the Siwa Oasis, blending in is taken seriously—it’s almost impossible to distinguish the eco-lodge from the biscuit-coloured landscape. The 40 rooms have been built in the traditional Siwan style, using salt-rock and palm. There’s no electricity, with the only sources of light post-sunset being torches, beeswax candles and the starlit sky. Produce is handpicked from the in-house organic garden, and the pool is fed by a natural spring. Eminent guests to have stayed here include Prince Charles and the Duchess of Cornwall. The experience gets even more extreme here: cellphones are banned outside rooms, so you can take it as an opportunity to go horseback riding, walk to the lake or spend chilly evenings warming up by old-style braziers. (Doubles from US$605 or Rs40,620)